And I do.
His face hovers over mine—and it’s Damien’s, but it isn’t.
The eyes are colder.
The smile, wider.
The voice dipped into a memory I thought I buried years ago.
“No,” I whisper, horror climbing my throat. “You’re not him.”
He doesn’t flinch.
He just tilts his head like a puppeteer admiring his work.
“I never said I was.” His voice softens. “You just wanted it badly enough to believe.”
I crawl backward, shaking, the sheets twisted around my legs.
His body glistens with sweat. My blood’s on his chest. My trust is still on his tongue.
“Get away from me!”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches for my ankle and drags me back toward him—slow, methodical—like he’s reeling in a catch he already knows can’t escape.
“No,” he says gently. “You don’t get to run. Not from me. Not again.”He climbs over me, pinning my wrists, and leans in so close I can smell the lie on his breath. “You gave him your screams. Now give me your tears.”
I thrash.
Bite.
Spit in his face.
He doesn’t even blink.
He smiles wider.
“That’s more like it.”
I scream—but it dies in his mouth as he kisses me again, pressing down, swallowing every inch of resistance.
He’s strong.
But I’ve been broken before.
And now?
I know the difference between being claimed and being consumed.
I snap my head to the side, baring my teeth, and I bite.
Hard.
His shoulder tears under my jaw, blood flooding my mouth.
He yelps—more shock than pain—but it’s enough.
